


Uneasy Alliance

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Angst, Book: Star Wars: Thrawn Series: Alliances, Canon Dialogue, Canon Related, Chiss (Star Wars), Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Hormones, Missing Scene, Over it Thrawn, Overwrought Padme, Rare Pairings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Zahn Ships It, not exactly shippy, oblivious Anakin, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: A remix of Thrawn:  Alliances.“Then the plan is obvious,” the stranger said, eyes still fixed to hers.  “You and I will travel to the rooftop to retrieve General Skywalker’s lightsaber.  He’ll remain here and draw enemy attention away from us.”Padmé opened her mouth to protest.  There was something dangerous about him.  She didn’t trust him, or trust herself to not be frozen by his stare at the worst possible moment.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 39
Kudos: 69





	Uneasy Alliance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Art_and_Chaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Art_and_Chaos/gifts).



> This fic draws VERY heavily on the actual scenes and dialogue in the book Thrawn: Alliances. 
> 
> 100% of Anakin's actions and dialogue are directly lifted, I made up absolutely nothing where he is concerned except in description and perception. Perhaps 80% of Padmé's and Thrawn's dialogue and actions are directly from the book, with slightly more liberties (necessarily) taken.
> 
> The story is built around Padmé's introspection and reactions, and I have added detail and dialogue to already existing scenes where they were alone and Zahn didn't tell us what they were up to... with the aim of making the scenario as possible as...possible. This could have happened in the book, so if you ship it, I get why!

Scene One

She noticed the man just as Anakin jerked his hand to the side in warning. The stranger in the shadows was shirtless, although his pants looked to be from the same nondescript crew uniform as Anakin’s. He stepped into the light as her ears caught up to her eyes.

“…Oh, and he speaks Meese Caulf.”

Padmé was painfully aware that she had missed the first part of the introduction, then, more distressingly, that she had raised her arms to embrace her husband. Of course Anakin had received her message; she never had a doubt that he would find her. But after so many days hiding from the Separatist battle droids on Mokivj, her sense of decorum had taken a backseat to her relief at knowing she was rescued.

“Ah.” Padme dropped her arms quickly, cursing her inattention. Anakin’s companion was striking—tall and blue, like a Pantoran, but with fiery red eyes instead of the expected yellow iris. How could she have missed him? His muscles were starkly defined, as if stretched to their maximum tension over an angular frame. Despite his state of undress, he moved with unmistakable confidence and calm as he stepped closer. His presence meant he must be an ally, although Padmé found herself wanting to move away, reestablish the distance between them.

“Thank you,” she managed in Meese Caulf. Whatever she had missed in Anakin’s introduction, it was evident that this person was helping them. Padmé was determined to maintain focus, despite her eyes’ insistence on cataloging his various shades of blue. The small splotches that were lighter, she realized, indicated scar tissue. Darker cobalt hues ran subtly along the sharp lines of his form, the length of his arms. His forehead was high and oddly contoured, emphasizing the strangeness that was boldest in his skin tone and eyes, but clearly extended to other parts of his deceptively human-looking anatomy.

The man spoke, and again Padmé was flustered to realize she hadn’t heard the first words from his thin, well-shaped lips; her ears initially registered the timbre of his voice, deep and rough—so different than her husband’s youthful speech. She felt his voice as much as heard it. He would make an excellent orator, Padmé decided, trying to justify her inattention.

“Is that a grappling hook on your weapon?”

Padmé looked dumbly at the item in her fingers as if she had forgotten she was holding it. She had, in all the excitement: the agitation of pointing a blaster into Anakin’s face, then the relief at seeing him, and now this alien addition to the equation.

“Yes,” she confirmed, impressed that he had noticed. Who was this man and how had he come to participate in her rescue? 

“It’s a combination blaster and ascension gun.” Her gaze lifted from the weapon as she spoke, and then couldn’t look away, irrationally trapped by the intensity of the red glare that met her. His glittering eyes were so different than Anakin’s blue, seeming to burn with experience, a tired, compelling heat in them.

“Then the plan is obvious,” the stranger said, eyes still fixed to hers. “You and I will travel to the rooftop to retrieve General Skywalker’s lightsaber. He’ll remain here and draw enemy attention away from us.”

Padmé opened her mouth to protest. There was something dangerous about him. She didn’t trust him, or trust herself to not be frozen by his stare at the worst possible moment. 

Thankfully, Anakin also disagreed. 

“Wait a minute,” he grumbled before she could speak, a scowl appearing. “ _You_ and Padmé? Wouldn’t it make more sense for _me_ to go up and get it?”

She wanted to sigh with relief, ears once again deciding visual senses took priority as she watched the two men shift positions, circling one another like caged bha’lirs. The blue stranger’s profile was severe and aciculate as he turned away from her, arguing with Anakin. 

Smiling to herself, Padmé relaxed further. No one could win an argument with Anakin, that was a fact, and so she wouldn’t be left alone with this half-naked man whose name she embarrassingly hadn’t heard. 

“Fine,” she heard Anakin relent, shock rolling into her bloodstream, hot and alarming. “If Padmé’s all right with it.”

All right with it? How could he do this to her? They’d just been reunited…Anakin obviously trusted this man, however, so she would try to as well. And stop mentally gaping at his striking appearance. Maybe his species didn’t wear tunics. It wasn’t as if every planet had the same clothing conventions as Naboo, after all.

“No problem,” she agreed with more enthusiasm than she felt. Her new partner’s mouth twitched slightly as if suppressing a smile, and Padmé was suddenly afraid that he had followed her inappropriate appraisal, read her thoughts, knew her insecurities and was ready to provide even more fodder for unfair comparisons between himself and her husband. He _knew._ She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain, abruptly paranoid. 

The stranger probably had guessed at the nature of their relationship, thanks to her indiscreet attempt to greet Anakin with open arms, and now evidently understood exactly how distracted she was by his appearance.

Grateful that he looked to Anakin as the three of them discussed the plan, Padmé wanted nothing more than to throw herself into the Jedi’s embrace. Anakin complemented her, loved her, and would die for her. 

She would do the same. There was no question.

As they prepared to split up, Anakin turned to her, and she read the same desire in his body language. It had been so long, so _long_ , and they needed to be together, to kiss, to make love, to lose themselves in one another to find peace. It was what sustained them both. 

Briefly, Padmé entertained the idea of leaping into Anakin’s arms. It would help matters—help her focus, to know that this newcomer had seen the proof of her love. Then he would understand whatever interest he’d witnessed in her eyes had been nothing but practical. It had been an assessment, an evaluation. She didn’t _want_ him. Not like she wanted Anakin. Padmé wasn’t curious about what his blue skin would feel like—cool or hot, rough or soft. She definitely didn’t wonder what secrets those lambent eyes held, or how well they could read her hidden desires.

She was Anakin’s. He was hers. 

She had to get a hold of herself. What was the matter with her?

“Be careful.” It was inadequate, Padmé knew, turning from his sight before she changed her mind and begged him to come with them to find his lightsaber. Surely Anakin didn’t need to stay behind, could defend them en route rather than serve as bait from a distance? She hurried away, desperate for reasons she didn’t understand.

Scene Two

They passed two downed droids before Padmé finally found the diplomatic courage to request the stranger’s name.

“Apologies,” she started, using the most polite Meese Caulf forms, putting linguistic distance between them. Unfortunately the narrow corridor meant she was unable to physically do the same.

“I was so surprised at running into my friend, I’m afraid that I have unforgivably forgotten your name.”

“I am Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he answered smoothly, then continued with the same level of formality. “However, Ambassador Padmé, I would sincerely request you simply call me Thrawn, for expediency as well as consistency.” 

She glanced at him with a questioning eyebrow. 

“Your…friend calls me Thrawn. Please do the same.”

“Of course, Thrawn,” she said, struggling to remember the correct grammatical Meese Caulf forms for formal address. “And you are assisting Anakin…”

Thrawn interrupted her in Basic.

“General Skywalker and I have common goals.”

Padmé thought again how unusual his voice was, how strangely melodic and self-assured. 

She was about to ask more about these goals, something in Thrawn’s phrasing setting her political instincts on edge, when they were interrupted by a new arrival—LebJau, the worker who had been hiding her from the Separatists for days.

Although she introduced Thrawn to LebJau as a friend, a shiver ran up her back as the Commander explained the factory worker’s lack of options. He spoke impassively, the words as measured and specific as a droid’s, but the power and conviction in his tone could have swayed the most skeptical listener. There would be no questioning Thrawn, no doubt that he meant every word he said. A lifetime of listening to idle threats and reluctant negotiators made Padmé appreciate the man’s ability to succinctly convey the inevitable. 

Still, Thrawn’s promise that he would give the workers as much time as possible to evacuate was reassuring. Perhaps only his words lacked heart, but one nonetheless beat with compassion inside his chest.

LebJau took Thrawn’s advice, convinced of the wisdom of escaping the premises before it was destroyed. He left without further argument.

They continued down the corridor to the south wing service level and roof access.

Arriving at the trapdoor, Padmé was unsurprised that Thrawn was able to open it without any difficulty. She watched the supple muscles in his back flex and contract as he pulled up the heavy cover.

“You know the route,” he said, indicating the ladder down. “You lead.”

Her heartbeat stuttered unreasonably at the prospect of a stranger at her back, but Padmé agreed. If Thrawn was secretly sent to kill her, he could have done it the instant they left Anakin’s company. No reason to do it here. _I trust him,_ she told herself as she started the climb down. _I **do.** Anakin trusts him. I trust him._

The tunnel was dark and seemed longer than she remembered. Silence stretched like an endless ribbon, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears. All Padmé could think about was the fact that she couldn’t sense Thrawn above her; his stealth was disconcerting. She wondered if his eyes glowed dimmer when ambient light was reduced.

“Why aren’t you wearing a tunic?” Padmé blurted, immediately chiding herself for the preposterous question. She intended to apologize for her rudeness, but Thrawn was already answering.

“I tore my shirt into strips and braided them into a cord which aided in the removal of General Skywalker’s cell door.”

Thankful for the moment that she was ahead, her expression hidden, Padmé found herself thinking in far too much detail about what Thrawn had just described. Ripping off—no ripping _up_ his shirt in a cell, weaving it with his strong, long-fingered hands into something useful… Why had Thrawn sacrificed his clothing and Anakin had not? Too many questions, too many images of tight muscles and torn tunics…it was ridiculous.

“Smart,” she replied, her voice shaking only a little. 

This man unbalanced her. 

Padmé knew it, and she didn’t like it. They had to get out of here as soon as possible. She was acting like a pontifex who’d stumbled into a Zeltron pleasure den. There were too many hormones swimming around her bloodstream, dancing beneath her skin, making it sweat and burn. She recognized her reaction to Thrawn as too intense to be natural, and could envision no remedy for it other than distance. The epiphany made her hurry, and Padmé sped the last few rungs down the ladder to attain the floor as quickly as possible.

Finally she reached the bottom, almost stumbling off onto the service level. Sudden nausea spiked in her guts, and Padmé leaned heavily against the wall, closing her eyes and hanging her head.

“Ambassador Padmé?” Thrawn was there. Concern, or a good imitation of it at least, in his voice.

“I’m fine,” she sighed, pushing away from the wall. “Felt a little dizzy…” 

Another wave struck and Thrawn bent down, one hand outstretched in an offer of support. She flinched away, not trusting herself. She _wanted_ his support, wanted _him_ , she admitted, which made absolutely _no_ sense. She didn’t _know_ him, had just met him. She was in love with Anakin.

It had to be the stifling, stale air, or hunger, or maybe some potent pheromones that his species naturally emitted. Nothing made sense.

Thrawn lowered his hand, but not his eyes, looking sternly into her face.

“If you are incapable of continuing—”

“I said I’m fine,” Padmé snapped. Then, because maybe it wasn’t his fault, “It’ll pass.”

Disbelief shadowed his expression, then something like understanding, as if Thrawn had a better grasp of her condition than she did. Padmé couldn’t decide if it bothered her or not, but at least she could walk again, energized by the bout of annoyance. It granted greater resolve.

“Where are you from, Thrawn?” 

Perhaps it was a world the Falleen had colonized. That would explain a lot, Padmé thought, struggling to tamp down a fresh torrent of desire.

“I was sent by the Chiss Ascendancy. I serve in its Expansionary Defense Fleet.”

Walking a little faster, Padmé huffed at the words. “Expansionary Defense? Isn’t that something of a contradiction?”

Thrawn looked amused, and she immediately regretted checking his reaction. He was even more handsome when he smiled.

“Indeed.”

So not arguing. That told her enough. This Chiss Ascendancy was likely ruling from an uncharted planet in the Unknown Regions, and looking to grow their dominion. If the species all were built like this commander, they would make formidable opponents.

“Why doesn’t the Chiss Ascendancy send emissaries to the Galactic Republic?”

“Perhaps one day we shall.” Thrawn was no longer smiling. “But noninterventionism has served us well for generations.”

Padmé tried to think of a diplomatic response, feeling some comfort at the sincerity in his delivery. She had no doubt his people would suffer if they attempted an invasion of a Republic-allied world, but Thrawn’s isolationist explanation made sense. And it could be the reason that she had never met a Chiss before. Never even heard of them.

“What is a Marg Sabl?” His rich voice was curious. “General Skywalker used that term.”

Blinking away her unease, Padmé dragged her mind back to the present. Thrawn had changed the subject to Anakin’s battle maneuver. She was grateful for the excuse to focus on something else, explaining details as she remembered them until they reached the south wing’s outer wall.

Scene Three

“What is your plan?” Thrawn asked. His neck arched as he evaluated the slick duracrete rising vertically between the ground and the rooftop.

Padmé tried to hear skepticism or condescension in his tone and could not. She was used to alien species of all types, and was gratified to think that Chiss, at least, did not seem to question a female’s ability to lead or make decisions.

She checked the mesh on the windows with her monocular and explained how they could grapple up with her ascension gun. She had only three grapples, so they would be smart to share one. She showed Thrawn the two handholds, sure that it would support their combined weight and trying not to think about the inevitable closeness that would result from a joint ascent.

“Once we have reached the top of the line, how do you propose to gain the rooftop?”

She hadn’t thought that through. There were no footholds.

“I guess one of us will have to stand on the other’s shoulders in order to reach the top.” 

The idea sent a pulse of heat to the wrong places. 

Something was definitely not right. It _had_ to be alien pheromones. Padmé tried not to be angry, but blamed Anakin for putting her in this position. Of all the times to lose an argument…

“I doubt you can take my weight,” Thrawn warned her, the words illogically sensual, “…and my own chest and shoulder muscles have been somewhat compromised.”

Swallowing hard, Padmé tried to sound like she wasn’t at all interested in those chest and shoulder muscles, or making them feel better. _This is like a disease,_ she told herself, _it doesn’t mean anything. Chemical. Temporary._

“By…?”

“Enemy weapons fire,” Thrawn stated dispassionately. 

He’d been shot?! Padmé found herself staring even harder at the broad planes of well-muscled blue skin. He had scars, but…where… Stars, why did he look so good?

“…the cables would form a V-shape that one of us could use as a foothold while stretching to the roof.”

Recalling her earlier intuition that Thrawn could tell how she reacted to him, Padmé was glad that he gave no sign of diagnosing her arousal or interest. She nodded in agreement, able to piece together his suggestion by the half-heard latter part of it.

“Yes, that should work,” she acknowledged, shifting her backpack, only to have Thrawn pull it off her shoulder. The backs of his fingers grazed the material of her tunic, sending a pleasant chill down her spine. But his presumption at taking it…

She objected strenuously, which Thrawn summarily ignored. Of course his reasoning made sense—Padmé somehow doubted he could be anything but reasonable—that implacable stare, even speech, and irrefutable logic so unlike the stubborn type of debate she was accustomed to from Anakin—but that didn’t make it better. Thrawn had already proven himself adept at getting his way. That’s how she wound up here in the first place.

Her companion waved an elegant hand towards the wall, blue fingers extended like a fan. 

“At your convenience, Ambassador.”

The operation was less complicated than she had feared. They ascended together, and Thrawn managed to keep them from colliding on the way up. Near the top, Padmé dangled from the gun and watched Thrawn climb his way onto the roof as if he were part Wookiee. He disappeared for a moment before returning, lying above her on the edge of the roof and reeling the extended line into his hands.

Padmé had no choice but to look up during the approach. She couldn’t avoid his glowing eyes or unreadable expression. She felt vulnerable and undone when Thrawn reached down and gripped her wrist firmly once it was in range. His touch was as balanced as his voice, as impersonal as his conversation, but nevertheless sent a jolt from her fingers to her toes. She gasped.

With one fluid movement, Thrawn pulled her onto the roof. 

Her other hand reached for his forearm reflexively, grazing it with a spark to her nerves before Padmé realized the natural place to rest it would be on the rooftop itself. She shifted, trying not to dwell on the sensations tingling along her skin where he’d held her, as sharp and lingering as a burn.

No logic, no emotion she could summon helped tame her reaction to the Chiss. Padmé tried to be angry, but decades of fighting xenophobia didn’t allow her to blame his race for his effect on her. She tried to think about Anakin—the most private, intimate thoughts—but Thrawn was walking before her, his bare skin rippling as he paused and glanced over one “compromised shoulder.” Nothing about his physique looked compromised. It was perfectly constructed, athletic…

Padmé cursed in Huttese, a word she knew Anakin used in only his most frustrated moments. For her, profanity was as rare as it was unproductive.

Thrawn turned around, stopping, eyes narrowed.

“Were you injured on the ascent, Ambassador?”

“No.” Her voice was defensive and firm. 

She didn’t want to talk to him, or look at him, or think about him. But until Thrawn nodded and continued walking, Padmé hadn’t admitted how much she had hoped he would force the issue. Now she was back to staring at his naked torso. And it was too quiet on the roof. No opposition, no vulture droids, no sentries. It was odd. Wrong.

And then she heard Thrawn muttering something, low, under his breath, a few paces ahead of her. 

Maybe…maybe he was feeling the same thing? Maybe this weird biological urge went both ways? The _least_ he could do would be to tell her, so they could figure out how to deal with it…

A shudder ripped through her, bringing with it imaginings of the variety of ways they could “deal with it.”

A shimmering orb in the distance was distracting enough to wrench her thoughts back to respectable places. 

“Thrawn! Over there!” Padmé pointed, anticipating imminent attack, but when she looked around, he was crouched behind a floodlight, unconcerned.

“Don’t worry,” he called, beckoning with those long fingers. “Come.”

She went, wondering if she even had a choice in the matter. Halfway to his position, another wave of nausea hit. Stars, what if she was allergic to _him_? Or whatever chemicals were making her behave this way? She stiffened, pushing down the bile rising in her throat.

“What are they?” she asked, squatting next to him.

“Decoys.” Thrawn’s face was so close to hers, aligned perfectly for... “For my ship. Do you see it?”

She scanned the sky, squinting against the brightness of the spheres, trying to focus on the darker parts of the horizon.

“Where?”

“Not there.” Thrawn’s shoulder bumped hers as he took the ascension gun and hooked it into place. “Above.” 

He didn’t wait for her comprehension, rappelling backwards off the roof with her husband’s lightsaber in one hand. Padmé wasted no time in following, trying not to think about the shadowed shape that had been silently hovering right over their heads.

When she caught up, Thrawn had already ignited the Jedi weapon as if he’d used one before, slicing at the shield generator. The blue blade hummed in his hands, and its use bothered her somehow more than all the inappropriate thoughts she’d had about this man since he appeared in her life mere hours ago. 

How _dare_ he use Anakin’s lightsaber? Padmé raised her blaster, confused and angry.

Was Thrawn an enemy?

When he had finished disabling the generator, she lowered her weapon, feeling justifiably stupid. Further proof that she wasn’t thinking clearly. How had she expected his ship to land with a working shield generator blocking its descent?

“General Skywalker’s weapon,” Thrawn pronounced, as if she didn’t know, “and your communicator.” So that’s how he’d called his ship—what he’d been muttering up on the rooftop. He must have taken it from her backpack when she wasn’t paying attention.

Padmé studied his smooth features, making no move to take the items. 

“What are you doing?” she almost whispered. 

Thrawn told her: his mission had never been about rescuing her, and wasn’t about helping her husband; it was about stealing this piece of technology for his people. He’d cut the shield generator from its foundation for transport.

“Did he know this was your true mission?” Padmé asked when Thrawn had finished, the now-familiar rush of sickness in her stomach ebbing, compounded by the betrayal of a perceived ally.

“No,” Thrawn returned calmly, as if his departure was to be expected. “He’ll need this.” He held out the weapon once more. “And he’ll need you.”

Padmé chose to ignore that. Thrawn knew nothing about her. About _them_.

“So you’re just going to leave?” The words were plaintive, less demanding than she intended. “ _We_ need _you_.”

The admission was inadvisable, she knew it as soon as it came out of her mouth. Thrawn was a warrior—it was etched on his skin, sculpted into his hardened muscles, written in the cold line of his lips, the cruel set of his jaw. What she had interpreted as compassion earlier for the factory workers’ plight she now realized was merely practical tradecraft. He would not be moved by her entreaties. Padmé had encountered similar species, or so she thought. They valued strength, not weakness, wanted powerful allies, not sentimental friends. But her declaration still felt truthful, and she couldn’t take it back. Or let it go, given Thrawn’s silence.

“Is this how your people do things? Just go along until you’ve gotten what you want, then abandon everyone else?”

“Is that how your Republic does things?” Thrawn countered, a gleam in his searing eyes daring her to engage, to continue this debate. 

“This isn’t about politics,” she argued. “It’s about individuals. People. Honor.”

Thrawn seemed to scan her soul before answering. Again Padmé had the sensation of being laid bare to his knowledge, half-expecting him to call her out, confront her with her own attraction.

But she underestimated him, and he chose instead to target her political world—the role of the Republic. When Thrawn mentioned the Separatists in some sort of false equivalency, she couldn’t ignore it.

“ _They_ started the war! That’s not the issue here,” she protested, dismissing his argument. 

“Perhaps it is,” Thrawn replied, unflappable as always. “We need to understand you.” He took a step closer to her, the visible rise and fall of his chest the only clue to his growing agitation. “We need to know what drives you.”

 _What drives me?_ A flood of heat washed over her at his proximity, at the question. Padmé closed her eyes to temptation. She couldn’t think, didn’t _want_ to think, but she had to. 

_This is the part in the holo_ , she thought crazily, _where the actress runs into the hero’s arms and we all understand **exactly** what drives her._

“Right now, what drives me is that my…friend Anakin is going to die if we don’t help him. We can’t do this alone, Thrawn.” She met his gaze, biting the inside of her cheek to not get lost in its depths. “We need your help.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t falter. Didn’t care.

“My mission comes first.” There was no apology in his words. “My people come first.”

Thrawn was immobile, as if daring her to make the first move. His eyes burned, a fire that offered no warmth. Whatever she had thought of him, whatever fantasy her hormone-addled brain had concocted, it all collapsed in the face of his apathy. 

“I’ll say goodbye for you,” Padmé snarled, bitterness in the words. At least she felt more centered now, more sure of herself. That almost painful ache between her legs had dulled, the twist in her stomach unknotting. Padmé snatched the lightsaber and comm from his fingers, the spark she feared from the contact weak. Still there, yes, but nothing more than a brief electrical response. Expected. Impotent.

She ran away from him, eyes stinging. Thrawn called something after her and she didn’t answer. Anakin was all she needed. They could do this alone.

Scene Four

He’d come back. After all that stupid soldierly duty drama, Thrawn had returned just when they’d needed him. 

“I never said I was leaving,” he answered when she confronted him. Maddening, if technically correct. 

Padmé thought, not for the first time since meeting Thrawn, that he was probably always technically correct.

He’d dressed on his ship, and now wore a plain black uniform that looked suitably imposing for someone of his stature. A pang struck her breast at the memory of what lay beneath the stiff material. Apparently her misplaced desire had returned the same time Thrawn’s honor had.

They made their way through the factory before splitting up. She and Artoo stayed behind to sabotage the battle droid assembly while Thrawn and Anakin went off to investigate and distract.

Padmé’s mind churned as her stomach continued to do, thoughts rancid and confusing. The relief—joy even—that she’d felt at Thrawn’s return was normal, she told herself. Anakin might be dead if he hadn’t come back. 

At least Thrawn wasn’t the insensitive mercenary he’d seemed. That was a fortifying thing, restoring her faith in sentients the galaxy over. It had nothing to do with him personally, did it?

Anakin seemed…immature in dealing with the challenges they were confronting now. Padmé battled frustration when trying to reason with him. It wasn’t just that he refused to see, he refused to _listen_. Thrawn’s idea, to leave the defective assembly line intact, was a brilliant plan. She had instantly seen its value. Anakin had resisted. He wasn’t as strategic—didn’t think of the long term benefits. She could compare the two men’s approaches objectively, the answer obvious. 

Thrawn was right and Anakin was wrong. 

Her husband was threatening the success of the mission. It didn’t seem fair to admit, but it was a fact. If only all the challenges she was facing were as easily analyzed.

Scene Five

Padmé had suffered countless disappointments, fought for her life so many times, it scarcely seemed worth mentioning everything that had happened since she last saw them. But no sooner had she caught up with the men then Anakin was leaving again.

“Padmé, stay here and give him a hand.”

She didn’t have the courage to glance at Thrawn to see if that order had any effect on the Chiss. She was guessing it didn’t. Only the silly, hyper-emotional, overwrought Senator was foolish enough to feel a flutter in her belly at being deserted by her husband for the umpteenth time since her “rescue.”

Together, after Anakin left, they waited for the battle droids’ approach. Padmé tried not to engage, tried not to think about Thrawn or remember what he had looked like without a tunic.

But she was a Senator, and had a diplomatic obligation. She couldn’t _not_ address the issues presented by Thrawn, by his civilization.

“Will you reconsider, Thrawn? Come to Coruscant. At least give the Republic a chance to woo you.”

One side of his mouth turned up slightly. 

“Perhaps someday, Ambassador.”

She supposed it would have to do. Someday.

Any further discussion was short-circuited by the terrifying sounds of B1s and B2s approaching. Anakin rushed back in just in time.

Scene Six

When the last battle droid had fallen, once again she was moved between the men like a pawn, without a say in the matter. Anakin was determined to destroy the entire facility, never mind how inadvisable it was… He was stubborn and imprudent, and she loved him anyway.

“Ambassador Padmé and I will check on the freighter,” Thrawn pronounced. Whether it was to protect her from Anakin’s folly or not, she couldn’t say, but knew it would have that effect regardless.

“Go ahead,” she told her husband, bracing herself for more worry, more wondering if he’d ever miss catching the wrong blaster bolt with his lightsaber.

Outside, Thrawn rushed her behind a stack of broken permacrete. His hands pushed firmly on her shoulders rather than asking her to crouch lower. The touch was entitled, unquestioning in his right to move her, manipulate her. Padmé wasn’t used to being touched this way, and balked. However before she could consider how to address his inappropriateness, or if it even was inappropriate given the circumstances, Thrawn pressed closer against her.

“The collapse will be strong. And loud. I suggest you cover your ears.”

Padmé felt his breath against her face. Something warm and sharp seemed to trickle from deep within her chest to settle between her legs.

“What about you?” she asked. Thrawn was positioning himself around her form, a flesh and blood shield.

“The masonry only provides protection on three sides,” he replied, the implication clear.

“But—”

“No time to discuss, Ambassador Padmé. Close your eyes and cover your ears.”

The command was indisputable. She complied, feeling the heat of him, his hard sternum pressing against her bent knees, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders. 

The first crash, indicating Anakin had successfully toppled a structural pillar, was horrifically loud. Padmé lurched instinctively, her flight response in high gear. Thrawn’s mass stopped her, of course, and it was all she could do to resist wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest.

“Anakin…” 

She whispered the name more as a reminder than a prelude to a thought, but Thrawn misinterpreted.

“General Skywalker’s speed is among the fastest sentients I have ever witnessed,” he said calmly, as if his face wasn’t kissing distance from hers and she wasn’t trembling uncontrollably for reasons she would rather not examine. “He will soon destroy another pillar, and you will have audible proof of his survival.”

Mute, Padmé nodded, reassured more at this evidence of Thrawn’s empathy than at his words themselves. She wasn’t worried about Anakin getting out of this. She just wished he wasn’t so foolhardy, so stubborn as to put her repeatedly in this position. 

Despite the earlier cacophony, Padmé wasn’t prepared for the second collapse. This time she did reach for Thrawn, who nimbly caught her forearms and crossed them in the small space between them. She looked into his face, trying to come up with a defense for the impulse, but Thrawn seemed to have also misunderstood her purpose, intentionally or otherwise.

“If debris flies this way,” he looked down at where his long fingers still wrapped around her, “I would prefer your arms were shielded from airborne fragments.”

Ashamed at her earlier judgement of his character, Padmé’s hands fisted in her lap, simultaneously hoping he would not release her and praying he would.

“I am sorry,” she apologized, “for before, the way I spoke to you…” She forced her neck up, knowing it was a bad idea to level their faces. It was a test. She could handle it. She was _married_. 

The third pillar’s destruction shattered her thoughts, interrupting her phrase. Wincing, she realized Thrawn had released her arms. His hands were now clapped over her ears, catching some of her hair in the process. The result was a poorly-timed sense of intimacy, and Padmé shifted uncomfortably as a secondary crash prevented him from lowering them. She lifted her hands then, covering his, hoping he would understand her meaning: He could lower his—she was capable of covering her own ears, after all. 

The Chiss’ fingers felt bizarrely cool and soothing, and she slid her palms reflexively down over his knuckles, the soft tips of her fingers tracing the gaps separating his. 

Gently, he turned his hands towards hers and lowered them both. Thrawn’s thin mouth tilted, as if he were debating speech. Releasing their hold, his hands returned to their positions on either side of her.

“One more…” she said, trying to carve some normalcy back into the atmosphere that had clotted between them.

Thrawn nodded, his chin tilting upward.

“Cover your ears, Ambassador.”

She did so, just in time, as the final pillar’s demise was the loudest yet. Biting her lip, Padmé closed her eyes again. She thought she could feel the heat of Thrawn’s stare, burning through her eyelids, reading things she would never have voluntarily revealed. Did he have a woman, back on his home planet? Was he used to inciting embarrassing, ill-advised, involuntary responses? Did he find her foolish? Was he amused at how she was so naively susceptible to him?

Thrawn shifted his position, and Padmé felt the loss of his proximity instantly. The air around her cooled, the oxygen in her lungs flowed more easily. Opening her eyes, she saw he had stayed crouched, but now was squatting next to her rather than blocking her.

She opened her mouth to speak, just as Anakin dropped soundlessly at her other side behind the rubble barrier.

“Is it done?” she asked him, eyes stinging from the dust in the air. “It was certainly loud enough.”

“Buried, crushed, and shattered,” Anakin replied. A familiar smirk flickered across his face. He took so much pleasure in turning things into heaps of wreckage; she’d seen it more times than she cared to count. Once perhaps, Padmé had found it amusing, a charming sign of his youth and a reminder of the days when Anakin would take everything apart ten times to see how it worked. He could always put it back together, but every once in a while a piece or two would be “extra” when all was done.

But today, his satisfaction at the ruination of the factory, the livelihoods of its workers, without even noticing what his constant absences were doing to her, was disheartening. Anakin was so consumed with his mission and his blind dedication to the annihilation of everything in his way that it eroded his ability to see anything else.

“What happened here?”

Anakin’s question sounded innocuous, but Padmé couldn’t come up with a response that would mirror its tone.

“Did you forget my ship’s diversionary attack?” Thrawn asked by way of response.

The permacrete barrier—that’s what her husband had been referring to, not how they had passed the time while he sliced his way through the factory’s architecture.

“So what now?” he asked a moment later.

“We prepare to leave this world,” Thrawn said. “Ambassador Padmé and I will go there.” 

She followed the line of Thrawn’s index finger down the side of the east wing, wanting to scream in frustration. Always with _him_. Always separating from her husband. And Anakin never even complained, no longer questioned any of this, not since the first time.

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep her hormones in check, her impulses suppressed. It seemed with each passing encounter, her emotional orbit degraded, bringing her closer to crashing into the man at her side. Padmé barely registered that Thrawn was once more directing Anakin into harm’s way, telling him to fight the super battle droids, buying them time.

“Go. Now.” 

This Commander of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force had no problem issuing orders to a Jedi Knight. Her chest tightened, waiting for Anakin’s inescapable, reflexive refusal. Instead, he agreed—lightsaber blazing, charging like a one-man army into the courtyard.

Thrawn wasted no time, grabbing her arm and yanking her firmly in the other direction. Stunned at her own compliance, she ran at his side. Before long they came upon a small freighter docked several hundred meters away, where minutes ago there had been nothing. Thrawn used her S-5 to take out the men guarding the ship, waving her up the ramp. 

“You could have explained your plan,” she snapped, exasperated at having nothing to do but follow him around and suffer the inconvenient illness his presence precipitated. 

Thrawn gave her the look that the criticism deserved. 

There was little time, and dodging blaster bolts and hijacking enemy ships were more important for saving lives then taking precious moments to detail his rationale.

“Can you fly this?” he asked instead.

“I think so. Can’t you?” she asked.

He shook his head, ducking around her waist to shoot a battle droid that had appeared from a mountain of debris before it saw them.

Settling into the pilot’s seat, Padmé took stock of the flight controls before turning her attention through the viewport towards Anakin’s battleground. Her husband was fighting far too many enemies, his movements a blur as the Force guided his lightsaber. She knew, of course, that his defense was out of her hands, but fear for his safety slithered through her guts. Her fingers started to shake. 

Looking for the turbolaser cannon on the controls, her brain began an insistent refrain. She had to take out the droids targeting Anakin. She could help from this distance. Just as she reached to activate, a blue hand covered hers.

“At this range, the blast would also be concussive, Ambassador.”

She _did_ know that, yet been so caught up in her own terror that the simple physics of in-atmosphere weaponry had been forgotten. Padmé’s free hand moved to the yoke to glide the ship forward, but Thrawn also halted that plan of action. The hand atop hers squeezed gently.

“We should remain a sizable distance away…” Thrawn indicated the whirl of blue light where her husband stood. “So as not to interrupt his…trance.”

That was a good word for it. A trance. When Anakin was occupied with fighting, he surrendered control more completely than he ever did in any other aspect of his life.

At her nod of acquiescence, Thrawn’s hand lifted. She tried not to feel the phantom weight that remained, tingling like a shadow on her skin. 

The touch had meant nothing, could mean nothing.

She was _married_.

Shaking her head to clear it like a pono hound after a bath, Padmé raced aft to the ramp. Thrawn had already lowered it, and was using her blaster to target the B2s that still fought.

“Anakin!” Padmé screamed to be heard. He spun, caught her eye. Good. She ran back to the cockpit. Her fingers twitched on the controls, waiting for the signal to take off…it was too long in coming, but finally she heard someone enter the cockpit.

“Ani, I was—”

Padmé swallowed whatever she had planned to say as Thrawn settled comfortably into the copilot’s chair.

“It will be a moment longer. His droid has been found.”

Artoo. Smiling at the good news, she looked back down at the console to avoid Thrawn’s red gaze.

“GO!”

Anakin’s yell from the stern flung her into action. The ship lifted off with a jerk. Padmé veered wildly in attempts to avoid ground fire, hoping that her passengers were strapped in but not able to take any time to check.

A few seconds later, Anakin came into the cockpit, bracing himself on the back of her chair. Not even acknowledging her, he asked Thrawn where they found the ship. Once that was out of the way, Anakin ordered her to fly over the mine. She made to do so, but Thrawn disputed that proposal.

“What are you talking about?” Padmé finally asked them both, irritation coating her words.

“General Skywalker plans to destroy the mine,” Thrawn said, the explanation infused with quiet dissent. “Again, I urge you—”

“There,” Anakin ignored him, pointing over her shoulder at the main shaft. 

“Anakin…are you sure this is a good idea?” 

Padmé wasn’t sure herself what all the pros and cons were, but she remembered her earlier assumption that Thrawn was always technically correct. She could not say the same for her husband, and there was an intensity to Thrawn’s disagreement that made her think this was one of Anakin’s worse ideas.

“You taking _his_ side now?” 

Anger that she didn’t need the Force to feel rippled through the air, putting Padmé on the defensive. Anakin didn’t know what had happened—what she’d felt and craved every time he’d shoved her into another impossible situation alone with this stranger she barely knew. This reaction was his typical petulance, not genuine suspicion. Padmé didn’t want to fight. She needed his love more than ever. 

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” she clarified. “I’m just trying to figure out if it’s the smart thing to do.” She glanced sideways at Thrawn, seeing a flash in his eyes that looked strangely encouraging. “We’ve got the droids reprogrammed, remember? Why not let them waste the cortosis in the mine?” 

_Thrawn’s plan is a good one_ , she wanted to add, but swallowed that sentiment before it passed her lips. Anakin wasn’t likely to be jealous of Thrawn, but he _was_ jealous of perceived threats to his own agency.

But he had an argument for that. He had an argument for everything. Padmé had seen Anakin like this too many times before, but usually had an easier time surrendering to his stubbornness. This time, however, with Thrawn as a witness, she felt shamefully ineffective.

“Put us down beside the main door,” Anakin commanded, his voice like durasteel.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she sighed, knowing it made no difference and not really expecting a reply, but her husband rested a hand on her shoulder.

“I do. Trust me.”

She did. She did trust him. The problem was about this, Padmé thought she trusted Thrawn more.

Scene Seven

The miners’ looks of resentment solidified Padmé’s certainty that Anakin’s plan was a mistake. LebJau and Anakin moved explosives from the equipment sheds back and forth to where they would be most effective, while she and Thrawn were once again paired off to do the same for tools.

The shed was unlit. Damp clung to the rotted wood like a plague. Padmé felt inexplicably close to tears, and then, with the unerring bad timing of everything that had happened that day, she felt her stomach contort, her chest seize, and the world grew dim. 

Thrawn caught her before she collapsed against the wall. He’d apparently given up commenting on her health, and merely waited for her to find her feet again.

Padmé sagged against him, feeling the strength of his whole body like one connected, custom-made support—fingers, torso, arms all built explicitly to keep her safe and upright. She wanted nothing more than to stay there, to turn her chest to his and see if they fit together just as well in that direction. Blinking rapidly, she struggled to resist, grateful when Thrawn judged her capable of standing and released his hold.

Walking with slow deliberation to the shed door, Padmé watched the last group of miners vanish towards the transport lot. Anakin was nowhere in sight.

“I don’t think General Skywalker has thought this through,” Thrawn murmured in her ear, startling her. His tone was serious, tinged with urgency that she hadn’t thought him capable of. Padmé turned to look at him, seeing lines of worry painting his remarkable features into something uneasy and disapproving. And even more attractive—this evidence of concern made her heart beat faster and sent a surge of warmth like a wave over her skin.

“I agree,” she whispered back, fighting the sudden urge to shake Thrawn, to beg him to stop Anakin, to turn him away from this course of action, whatever it took. How had Thrawn persuaded Anakin to abandon her to his care so many times and not be able to do this now?

“I’ve seen him in this mood, and…” she lowered her eyes briefly, biting her lip, trying to sound stronger, more confident. “I’m guessing you have, too.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said, following her back into the shed. Padmé wanted one final look to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

“But he has feelings for you. Can you not persuade him to rethink this action?”

The breath hitched in her lungs as she spun to face him, putting on the requisite innocent expression that served her well.

“What do you mean?”

“I understand your reticence,” Thrawn said, implacable as ever. He took a step towards her. Padmé retreated further into the shed’s depths, uncomfortably conscious of the strength housed in Thrawn’s lean frame, the knowledge that burned undaunted in his red stare. “The time for that has passed. I’ve observed you both. I know what you’re hiding.”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said, proud at the unruffled tone she’d mustered. It was clear what she had to do, her body humming at the revelation. Today had prepared her for this moment. She could convince him. She _wanted_ to convince him.

She moved swiftly, gliding with the same ease and grace with which she travelled down Senate hallways. Without the element of surprise Padmé was certain Thrawn could have avoided her. But he seemed only to understand her intention at the last possible second, when it was too late to stop her lips from smashing inexpertly into his.

At first, Padmé was too charged with adrenaline to contemplate what it felt like to kiss Thrawn. However he did not immediately push her away, and she was able to consider, albeit briefly, the unexpectedly soft texture of his lips, the heat of his breath sliding into her mouth.

Just as she was about to throw her arms around him, Thrawn separated them, hands clenched on her biceps. She tried for a lower embrace, and he firmly pushed her away, her shoulder blades hitting the splintered wall at her back.

“I do not appreciate being toyed with, _Ambassador_.”

His tone was glacial, and although Padmé knew she should retreat, she found Thrawn’s response equal parts exciting and frightening. The twisted nausea from earlier had stabilized into a steady thrum that echoed throughout her insides, turning everything liquid and hot. 

“ _I_ do not appreciate _your_ assumptions, _Commander_ ,” she returned, trying to mimic his tone. Padmé could do haughty well. It was part of the job. 

“Jedi are forbidden attachments.” She recited the rule with bitterness, uncaring if Thrawn could discern it. She had heard it too many times, and was yet to be inured to the cruelty of the lifestyle imposed upon the Order.

Thrawn studied her as if trying to puzzle out some complex riddle. His gaze slipped from her eyes, travelled down the center of her, and stopped at her stomach. He squinted, the glow of his eyes turning into slits as he again met hers.

“This is a tactic,” he declared at last. “An attempt to convince me that you are not romantically involved with General Skywalker.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “And you believe mock seduction is an effective strategy towards that goal.”

Padmé forced a laugh, trying to think. She had kissed him with that aim in mind, but it now seemed less important than continuing what she’d started. She wanted him. He’d simply provided the excuse, dared her to contradict his assessment. 

She started to move towards Thrawn again and he held up a warning finger. His face was unlined, a mask of inexpression.

“A poor strategy, I suppose, if this is your response,” Padmé offered, trying for levity. “Shall I make another attempt?”

“I suggest you abandon this method entirely,” Thrawn said coldly.

He was still close, too close, his red eyes illuminating the darkness. Padmé heard a challenge where she should have heard a threat, and launched herself at his silhouette. She was fast, but he was faster. 

Swinging the S-5’s sling to his back in one smooth motion, Thrawn’s hands trapped her wrists against the abrasive wood. Defiant, Padmé lunged for his mouth, lips biting and tugging at his, daring him to stop her. With a growl, Thrawn slammed her hard to the wall, drawing a grunt from her throat. One knee drove between hers, his thigh shoving and pressing against her crotch. Instead of stopping her this time, Thrawn’s kiss turned savage.

His tongue scraped hers, exploring her mouth like he was mapping it. Padmé couldn’t breathe, her lungs protesting. She was unable to move, unable to decide if she wanted to stop him. No one had ever kissed her like this, as if all her secrets were already exposed. Anakin’s kisses were possessive, yes, but always tinged with something tasting of desperation and need.

Thrawn’s lips claimed her, annexed her like a territory he had conquered. There was no desperation, only confidence and total domination. She was imprisoned, enslaved, and hopelessly outmatched.

Even as her hammering heart felt like it would explode out of her ribs, Padmé ground down, seeking friction on his leg. She was no longer able to contemplate how to get out of this. An undeniable haze of want misted and obscured any dismay at her own actions or vague thoughts of repercussions.

Thrawn finally broke off his assault, keeping her pinned to the wall with hands and knee. His face was twisted into something fierce and unpleasant.

“Do you wish to reconsider this _tactic_ , Ambassador?” he breathed. His lips moved so close to hers, they grazed her own, which already felt bruised and swollen. Thrawn’s exhalation no longer seemed heated, but chilled and contemptuous.

What was she _doing_? This man had helped them, and in some misguided effort to protect the lie that was her marriage, she’d discarded her self-respect, his regard, and their alliance with a kiss.

“Yes,” Padmé whispered, miserable, caught. 

Instantly Thrawn released her, stepping away as if she were carved from toxic Manax-root.

“I’m sorry,” she tried, but Thrawn sliced a dismissive hand through the air and stalked to the exit. The ferocity he’d just demonstrated was methodically buried as she watched, the tension in his body systematically absorbing the insult and rage she’d inspired.

“General Skywalker’s plan could create a serious threat to this world. You must stop him.” Thrawn’s voice had returned to its usual tone, all menace bled out of it.

Padmé followed him through the door, wincing as the dazzling light of Mokivj’s setting suns stung her eyes. She reached out a hand to get his attention, then thought better of the contact.

“He won’t listen to me.” Tears, from the ternary sunlight, the futility of Thrawn’s request, and her own unforgivable behavior, pooled in her eyes. “Once he’s decided something, he won’t listen to anyone.”

Thrawn said nothing, apparently evaluating the truth of her assessment. “Then there is indeed nothing we can do.”

She heard a strange emotion embedded in Thrawn’s words, and didn’t understand it. 

“Is there a problem?” Padmé asked, then cursed her inane question. “I mean, another problem?”

Another problem besides the idiot woman who practically cheated on her husband for reasons she still didn’t understand? The problem of the Jedi gone rogue who would not be turned from his destructive course? Or the problem of the insult to the man who had been nothing but honorable up until the moment she’d attacked him in a frenzy of hormones and bad judgment? Padmé could almost laugh, wondering how Thrawn would respond, if she weren’t so disgusted with herself.

“If what you say is true,” Thrawn finally said, “I worry for his future. And yours. And…” 

He lowered his eyes, but whether he was looking at something she couldn’t see or choosing his next words, Padmé did not know.

“And your family,” he finished quietly. “It is an unwise warrior who lets emotion and short-sightedness overshadow enduring victory.”

Although on some level, Padmé understood he was talking about Anakin’s impetuousness and stubborn, vengeful behavior, she heard a veiled critique of her own histrionic display.

“The Jedi Code is supposed to…” she began, trailing off when she realized how pointless an argument that was. Clearly Thrawn already knew exactly how closely Anakin didn’t follow the Jedi Code. 

Padmé swallowed, crossing her arms and doubting her ability to look him in the eye now. Something about this man made her honest, more honest than she had been with herself.

“Sometimes he scares me,” she admitted softly, thinking about the horrible things she knew he’d done, what he’d confessed to her. Anakin had slipped more than once. But he had not fallen. And while she couldn’t condone his slaughter of the Sand People, she had tried to forgive him. It was her duty. She was his wife.

“But he’s so strong…he can handle anything.” It wasn’t a good defense, and she saw something like pity in Thrawn’s eyes.

Evidently the Chiss saw no point to continuing the conversation. 

“If you will again loan me your communicator, I’ll take leave of you and your”—he looked at Anakin, approaching rapidly from the western side—“your associate.”

“Of course,” Padmé said, handing it over. There was nothing else to say. 

She was positive that to Thrawn, she and Anakin must seem impossibly foolish and naïve. Padmé didn’t care what he thought—what anyone thought. She loved her husband, although perhaps Thrawn wouldn’t even believe that, given what she’d done. But only Padmé knew just how deeply Anakin was capable of loving. True, she was mortified at her lapse in the shed, her shameless descent into whatever tempting and turbulent sea had tried to drown her in its dark and twisted riptides, but she still loved him. 

Thrawn finished tapping in his code just as Anakin arrived. 

Clearing her throat, Padmé invited the Chiss once more to Coruscant, the formal words more at home in her throat than the secrets she’d already imparted. Thrawn refused, as expected, diplomatically dismissing Anakin’s implication that his people may someday need the Republic. Instead, he offered a final suggestion regarding the suspected plot to infiltrate their government. Padmé thought it was a good piece of advice, but Anakin brushed it aside, saying such concerns were no longer relevant.

 _Short-sighted_...Thrawn’s censure echoed heartlessly in her head. No matter what Anakin thought, she was capable of following up herself, once they were back on Coruscant. And she _would_ share Thrawn’s theory. She could inform the Republic’s security bureau, or at minimum communicate his misgivings to Obi-Wan.

Thrawn’s ship descended, and the Chiss took his leave. “Safe travels to you…” A slight pause as Thrawn looked from Anakin to Padmé, “…both.” 

A sharp ache bit into her bones and reverberated in her stomach. It settled there, solid and heavy and full of regret.

There was something special about this Commander, beyond his tolerance of her momentary insanity, or indulgence of her husband’s schemes. Padmé doubted he was a typical member of his suspiciously-named Expansionary Defense Force. Perhaps a spy or special infiltrator. Whatever Thrawn was, he had helped them, and allowed her to recover from the indignity of her shameful behavior without apparent malice or grudge. The abrupt memory of his powerful lips on hers turned Padmé hot and cold, a scalding shiver snaking along her scalp.

“I hope we’ll meet again,” she called, deciding she didn’t care if the Chiss read anything into it or not. Anakin may not appreciate Thrawn’s insight, but she trusted it. “Thank you for your help.”

“And for yours,” Thrawn replied, walking to his ramp. She watched the hatch close and the ship rose rapidly into the darkening heavens.

Padmé was curious as to Anakin’s take on Thrawn’s final counsel, but her husband wasn’t interested in discussing it. Instead of giving her a hug, or kiss, Anakin gave her an order. 

“Get back to the ship and make sure it’s ready.”

“Anakin—”

He was already gone, as was Thrawn. Padmé sighed, looking up a final time, but the Chiss ship had disappeared. Only stars remained, growing ever brighter as the sky surrendered to the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [JediMordsith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediMordsith/pseuds/JediMordsith) for beta'ing the madness for a ship she doesn't condone. She also had the brilliant idea of Padmé's pregnancy (as yet unknown to her) being the source of the hormones wreaking havoc on her sex drive in the proximity of the smexy Chiss commander. Thrawn, of course, with his infrared vision spectrum, can see what's up and gives her a pass.
> 
> If you read this and judge it impossibly far-fetched, I urge you to compare it with the source material. I have had to change very little of the text to create this scenario. Each separation is canon, most of the dialogue is canon, and Zahn conveniently even details Padmé's last lingering gaze at Thrawn's departing ship.


End file.
